It is a strange and symbiotic relationship. My life seeps into my writing--shaping characters, reactions, figures of speech, mannerisms, footwear. It is not a conscious fusion. I write what I know but I mix it with the multiple layers and nuances of research, of history, of interpretation. Whether things are tumbling and tumulting in my life or whether familiar, long faded chickens are coming home to roost, it shows up in my writing. A scene that would have turned right follows my footprint and turns left.
I am not sure that I mind it. It rings true and is enough dissolved and diluted that it does not cause any uncomfortable recognition in others. Only someone who knows me really well would be able to spot the collisions and connections. It is not an exact translation but more a messy game of post office. Events get reshaped and trimmed and tinted until they are something new. But the bones of the real still hold the frame underneath.
It is not only large scale installation change but small detailed finish carpentry change as well. I saw a rainbow while driving my sister to the airport the other day. That elusive moment of pale striped sky stayed with me. Without rain there are no rainbows. It rained in my writing yesterday.